


Blood and Gold and Bedroom Eyes

by MB234



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: BAMF John, Continental, F/M, Gentlemen's Club, John Wick - Freeform, John Wick POV, John Wick and Winston are friends, Reader is a stripper, Reader-Insert, Winston is awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2018-12-07 22:24:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11633169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MB234/pseuds/MB234
Summary: This was the life that John remembered from before Helen, the one that he thought he had left behind for the calmness of peace and quiet and minimal bruising of the strictly accidental bumped-my-knee-on-the-designer-coffee-table sort.This endless cycle of contracts, kill orders and coins, so many glinting, glimmering god forsaken coins slipping cold and callous against his palms, running like a macabre blood and gold tinged stream through his fingers.  His hands should be stained red by now, blazoned with the blatant evidence of his uncountable sins, but somehow they were just as they’d always been, tan colored and absolute and disturbingly deadly, if neither clean nor innocent.At first he took the contract out of curiosity, it’s not every day that a stripper becomes a contract target, but after seeing you, your kindness, your innocence, he took it to make sure no one else did.Short Fic, eventual smut! John Wick/Female Reader





	1. Prologue

Prologue: Contracts, A Slip of Skin and A Paper Heart

 

 _This_ was the life that John remembered from before Helen, the one that he thought he had left behind for the calmness of peace and quiet and minimal bruising of the strictly accidental bumped-my-knee-on-the-designer-coffee-table sort.

 

This endless cycle of contracts, kill orders and coins, so many glinting, glimmering god forsaken coins slipping cold and callous against his palms, running like a macabre blood and gold tinged stream through his fingers.  His hands should be stained red by now, blazoned with the blatant evidence of his uncountable sins, but somehow they were just as they’d always been, tan colored and absolute and disturbingly deadly, if neither clean nor innocent.

 

John took another sip of the whiskey glinting amber hued and thick in his glass, a gently aged single barrel bourbon judging by the crisp warm taste that sparked like fire each time it touched his tongue, and glanced expectantly at his drinking companion wedged firmly on the other side of the luxurious corner booth they occupied. The wizened older man that sat nursing his Manhattan, reading glasses perched precariously on the edge of his nose, was shifting laboriously through a pile of seemingly important papers spilt onto the shining mahogany table before him. The exact matters which they concerned, John was glad to say, were well above his pay grade.

 

“Have you seen the latest contract?” Winston asked casually, glancing up from his shuffling and huffing to peer at John over the perch of his spectacles, though the glint flashing in the older man’s grey-green eyes was intense, piercing, belaying a subject that was anything but _casual_ , and John was certain that a less seasoned man would have flinched at the contact.

 

“Yes,” he answered simply, gesturing somewhat disdainfully towards the newly acquired, secure cell phone tucked into the pocket of the pristine suit he wore tonight, it’s fabric midnight black and smooth as the venetian silk blend that it’s hand stitched label denoted.

 

“You should take it,” Winston supplied conversationally, as if they were discussing  the likelihood of rain tomorrow afternoon instead of the dangerous prospect of delaying his retirement and John quirked a sardonic brow in his old friend’s direction in amused response before he replied.

 

“And why is that?”

 

“Because it’s not every day that you get offered a contract involving strippers,” Winston supplied, his gravelly voice imbued with a thick layer of intention and no small amount of delight at John’s responding raised brows and low scoff.

 

“When have I ever been moved by a bit of skin?” John shot back, taking another sip from his dwindling glass to mask the telling downturn of his mouth, the biting interest that he suspected sparked hotly behind his eyes at this novel bit of information.

 

“Well perhaps now would be a good time to start.”

 

The comment caught John utterly off guard, not because it was overstepping any carefully drawn lines in the sand, really between himself and Winston there was only one and John didn’t plan on crossing it any time soon, but because it rang with a small kernel of tempting truth, pulsing and vibrant and unignorible as it slid down his spine, settled hotly somewhere between his hips.

 

“We are masters of our unsaid words, but slaves of those we let slip out,” Winston said, “And you, Jonathan, are a man of very few words and the possessor of a handful of very revealing tells.”

 

“Churchill?” John quipped in gentle prodding, hasty to shift the attention away from his old friend’s thinly veiled references and good heartedly offered solutions to his poorly handled grief and loneliness and onto the hotel owner’s predilection for British statesmen.

 

“Our great Master and Commander,” Winston barked, raising his Manhattan high, the maraschino cherry floating in its sloshing sea of bourbon and bitters threatening momentarily to leap out into the free air below. John chuckled as Winston completed his zealous toast with a heart gulp from his glass, and after a moment John joined him, finishing off his whiskey neat with a quick tilt of his head, grateful for the searing burn of it down his throat.

 

“I know that you want to retire, my friend, and I understand,” judging by the dark circles and heavy bags that sat burdened beneath Winston’s sharp eyes, John could believe it, “But this one is different.” Winston slid a manila folder that he’d procured from a previously unseen place beneath his papers towards John in offering, “This one is innocent.”

 

John broke his gaze from the long solemn lines of Winston’s face, scanning the older man’s features vehemently for any signs of exaggeration or dubiousness, and finding none he focused down onto the contents of the folder opened beneath him.

 

His gaze met color photographs of a woman, no doubt younger than the thick eyeliner and crimson lipstick artfully applied to already pretty features denoted, though the look, for all its heavy handed sensuality, seemed to suit her well. It highlighted the full bow of her lips, the almost exotic curve of her lashes. In an instant John could tell that the photos didn’t do her justice, and as he flipped through them he was suddenly grateful that there were no pictures featuring this woman in lingerie, if not for the sake of his palms that had begun to sweat then for his poor jaw, which was clenched in abject determination to conceal the curiosity running rampant through him. Judging by the gentle lilt of her smile in one shot as she flashed it to a stranger outside of her building, and the sincere crinkle of her eyes in the next as she held the door for an elderly woman exiting a metro station, she was too kind, too charitable to deserve death. The printout of the contract, reason for termination supplied in stark black ink on the bottom line, seemed to support this notion.

 

Winston, it seemed, for all his scheming and quoting, was right. This woman, whoever she was, was innocent, and any hitman who saw her contract would know that. Not that it would stop them from collecting the heavy one million dollar purse attached to the deed. His kind were not known for their empathy.

 

When Winston leaned in, bracing one suit clad arm on the table beneath him to meet John’s eye he saw something immeasurably weary yet determined, something almost _personal_ glinting in the older man’s gaze that had John sighing, toying with the idea that perhaps retirement could wait for just one more contract.

 

“This one,” Winston said, gaze intent, fingers clutching the edge of the revealing folder, voice grave as sin as he rasped, “needs Baba Yaga.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Lovely Readers! This is my first try at any John Wick writing, and POV nonetheless! Don't hesitate to tell me if it was awful, or if you loved it! I love feedback and comments, so please let me know any thoughts you have and if you want more! I'm hoping to make this a quick series of chapters that begin right after the beginning of the first movie and end after the second, taking John and the reader through a few important encounters and meetings. If you are loving it and want this expanded, tell me! If you want it kept to the few minimal chapters, let me know! Your feedback is welcomed and appreciated, please enjoy!
> 
> P.S. I create mood boards for a lot of my fics, they help me to envision the chapters better, so if that's something you're interested please check this one out! Thanks!
> 
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/163508806359/blood-and-gold-and-bedroom-eyes-prologue


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: A Bit of Lace, A Neon Heart and A Perfect Plan

 

 

 

"You've got a customer, Doll."

 

 

Your coworker-turned-best friend Serena's velvet and smoke tinged voice crooned low in your ear as she breezed to your side by the shiny black lacquer bar you were leaning against, the silvery blond sheet of her shimmering hair flipping elegantly in a smooth, practiced move as she flicked it over one lace clad shoulder and moved to face you once she'd dropped off the tray laden with shot glasses she'd just finished delivering to one of her many bustling tables. It was a Friday night and the club was brimming with patrons, most of whom were older men who, thanks to your careful eye and just a hint of deductive reasoning, you suspected were more than well off; in fact, if you were a betting woman, you’d wager that each and every one of them was positively  _loaded._  

 

 

You could tell not only from the dull sheen of their genuine leather wing tips and the pristine press of their immaculate suits, but from the ease with which they parted from their burgeoning wads of cash they kept neatly folded and clipped in either a grimy clutched hand or a satin lined breast pocket.

 

 

And you were more than happy to help them separate from their sizeable saving’s with the help of a garter clad thigh and a lace bedecked bosom.

 

 

“Did you hear me, Doll,” Serena crooned once more, her crimson tipped fingers curling excitedly around your exposed forearm in a gesture of girlish support, “You’ve got a customer! He paid cash in full for one half-hour long private dance. And he’s  _cute_.”

 

 

That last bit had you stilling, considering carefully before you moved to shake your expertly coifed curls in expected disdain of yet another client captivated by the comely upturn of your lips and the brashly displayed slip of your thighs.

 

 

Serena wasn’t one to mince words. No, she was always straight to the point, sometimes even accused of being blunt. She wouldn’t utilize such a choosy adjective lightly. Besides,  _cute_  wasn’t something often come by in this particular establishment. Confident - sure, wealthy - often, but  _cute_? No, that was a rare treat indeed.

 

 

You bit your crimson stained lips and flashed your gaze in the direction of your friend to discretely survey the seriousness of her words from beneath the thick sweep of your lashes, and after a heavily laden moment of apprehension where you judged her to be quite earnest indeed, you allowed a slight smile to play about the corners of your mouth as you hastily replied.

 

 

“Which booth?”

 

 

“Number Four,” Serena exclaimed, dipping her pale head to whisper tantalizingly in your ear, “He has stubble, Doll,” She sighed, referencing your stage name, Dolly, with a distinct fondness as she gave your arm a playful squeeze, ” _Stubble_!”

 

 

You snorted rather unbecomingly and rolled your eyes in an exaggerated show of disdain, but even with all the many months of training lying in wait beneath your garter belt, you just couldn’t quite manage to stem your excitement at finally,  _finally_  bagging a client that was rumored to be even remotely handsome. All in all, your regulars consisted of men well over fifty who were distinctly unhappy with their crusty wives and craved the untouchable allure of your exposed form dancing temptingly out of reach while they slipped crisp hundred dollar bills in the satin of your g-string. Lately, the only eyefuls  _you_  were treated to consisted of skin tags and wrinkles as far as your false eyelash bedecked gaze could see. Not that anyone would hear you complain though, considering how well your current clientele tipped.

 

And yet, the prospect of descriptors such as  _stubble_  and  _handsome_  had your heart doing strange, almost nervous flipping motions in your chest, the restless appendage refusing to stay still even as you strode across the bar floor and approached the familiar thick velvet drape of curtain separating the section marked  _PRIVATE_ in stark lettering from the rest of the neon clad club.

 

 

“Number four,” you murmured to the imposing bouncer positioned at the entrance, some tall, broad man you dimly recognized as a blond haired, blue eyed Russian named Dmitri, and with a subtle nod and a lazy smile cast in the distinct direction of your thong bedecked ass he assented, letting you pass with the hefty dip of one muscle packed shoulder.

 

 

You nodded back to him in thanks, giving him all the gratuity he required in the form of the generous swish of your hips as you strode away, in the direction of the private room marked  _four_  in gold macramé letters.

 

 

You paused just outside of the secluded space, bracing a deceptively steady hand on the sumptuous crimson velvet of the entrance curtain as you seized the rare stolen moment of alone time to straighten the pressing heft of the glittering plunge neck halter top you wore to cover your straining breasts and properly re-align the matching thong that graced the supple curves of your brimming hips. Sheer thigh high stockings skimmed the long flexing lines of your legs, running all the way down to the crystal embossed straps of your platform heels, which thudded discreetly on the plush carpeting as you took a steeling breath and abruptly swept that impeding heft of velvet aside to step forward into the room.

 

  
To say you were shockedby the man seated calmly before you, long lean legs spread out alluringly before him, his suit clad elbows resting casually on their respective armrests beside him, was a devastating understatement. Those tempting adjectives,  _handsome_ and  _stubble_ , did him absolutely no justice, you mused, as you surveyed the unkempt beard scrubbing the sharp cut of his jaw, the careless fall of his dark hair, the sensual line of his full lips, the heated smolder of his intense eyes.

 

 

He was something... _else_ , this man, something more than the mere politicians and statesmen and disgruntled husbands that you normally serviced, that much you could tell. Exactly what, you were loathe to admit you couldn’t ascertain just yet, but as you swept the plush curtain behind you and took a measured step towards him, delighting in the heat banked in his gaze as it swept with meticulous, half-concealed surprise down your form, you knew that you would enjoy becoming familiar with whatever  _he_ was.

 

 

“You requested a dance,” you crooned as you strode towards him, ensuring that your breasts held just the right measure of bounce, that your hips were brimming with the perfect amount of sway, before you spoke again, “You requested me.”

 

 

You stepped forwards until you were close enough to straddle him if you wanted, your knees braced on either side of his, and yet you made no such move, however tempting the sleek slip of his strong legs tantalized. You were a trained professional, surely you could control yourself, no matter how  _handsome_  or  _stubble-clad_  this stranger was proving to be.

 

 

“I did,” The Stranger replied, canting his dark head in a funny way that almost seemed like an attempt to clear his thoughts, perhaps to banish any lingering images of your sleek thighs flexing about his waist, of your cries slipping like sin and silk against that roguish beard of his. You just barely bit back the smile flitting about your lips at the effect you suspected you had on him. Distantly, through the booming bass of the low, sensual music filling the private room, you entertained a small kernel of respect for the rigid control that he commanded over his actions. For all your tempting closeness his long, thin fingers never once seemed to itch towards you, to flick uncontrollably in your direction. Instead they were clenched tightly around the arms of the satin lined chair beneath him. In fact, this close to his tantalizing form you could perceive that his whole huge, broad, muscle packed body seemed to be clenched, stretched taut about some invisible line that you intended to toe, to tease until he was roaring with desire, itching with lust. That was, after all, your job.

 

 

“You did,” you sighed, bracing a hand on each armrest of the chair he lounged in, your fingers just barely brushing the silky slip of his black suit jacket, obviously moneyed – one thing he had in common with your other usual patrons- as you leaned forwards, markedly conscious of the low cut of your crystalline halter top and the gracious slip of skin that it bared, “I think you have something in mind for us tonight,” you began to sway in time to the low, sensual music filling the velvet lined room, moving your hips in perfect syncopation with the driving beat of the smooth electronic techno pouring from the club’s speakers, “Something  _interesting_.” A saccharine smile curved your lips as the syllables of that last word slipped lazily from behind your teeth, and to your vehement surprise you didn’t have to force it one bit as it curled gleefully about your crimson stained lips. Your surprise only deepened at The Stranger’s response.

 

 

“I do,” his voice was soft, raspy,  _sexy as hell_ , you mused suddenly, though from intentional affect or simple misuse you couldn’t quite tell. Judging by the carelessly healing scrapes strewn across his otherwise unspoiled, handsome features, one gash curling boldly across the bridge of his nose and another slashing down one tanned temple, it was distinctly the latter of the two, “Though it most likely isn’t what you’re thinking.” He raised his eyes, and his brows, to you in an almost  _sorry_  expression, his gaze only dropping to the exposed flesh of your breasts for a fraction of a second before he was staring back at you once more. It was positively  _searing_ , his attention, his eyes as they fixed upon you, and their full weight had you straightening up once more, realigning your spine beneath the sumptuous press of his gaze.

 

 

“What is it, then?” you asked, your brow furrowing under the crushing worry of all the things it might be, from the water bill you’d forgotten to pay this month to the awful patron you’d had to kick out last week for becoming territorial over someone that sure as shit wasn’t his property, i.e.  _you_.

 

  
“Richard L. Ramirez,” The Stranger supplied after a healthy beat of silence, those keen, dark eyes of his carefully surveying your obviously surprised features for any hint of apparent fraud. 

 

 

“Ritchie,” you sputtered, your usually flawless club façade slipping fractionally as one of your hands flew up to the swell of your cocked hip and your brows furrowed even deeper, unfettered confusion as to how this alluring Stranger knew your dead beat ex etched into every line of your features, “What the hell does that son of a bitch have to do with me?”

 

 

The Stranger’s dark eyebrows flew marginally upwards at the profanity, no doubt it seemed strangely out of place in the dense, intimate heat of the private room you occupied, especially as you stood before him, all half bared breasts and full crimson pout. You didn’t blame him for his surprise, not really. When you featured as the starring lady in most men’s roseate fantasies, you didn’t curse like a sailor or have 30K in student debt.

 

 

“You know him?” The Stranger asked, leaning back to sweep his eyes down your form once more, though this time the look was less appreciative and more assessing, as if trying to decide whether or not you could fit a blade beneath the scant fall of your crystal bedecked halter top. You shimmied just a bit to assure him that,  _no you could not_.

 

 

“I dumped him.” The Stranger just blinked like he’d already known this. You spoke again only after completing your own quiet, subtle assessment of him, hesitantly reasoning from the earnest sheen of his dark, fathomless eyes and the sad quirk of his handsome brow that maybe you could trust him just a bit, “Though honestly, I wish I’d never met him.” You thought you heard him murmur something like,  _you don’t know how right you are_ , in that utterly devastating, darkly raspy voice of his before he was speaking full volume once more.

 

 

“Well, you must have done something to really piss him off, because he’s just put out a death sentence with your name on it.” Dimly, through the keen ringing roaring to life in your ears, you realized that each and every one of The Stranger’s white knuckles currently curled around plush velvet were split.

 

* * *

 

 

 _This one is innocent_ ….

 

 

That’s what Wilson had gravely assured in the dimly lit Continental bar a few nights ago over conversation and cocktails and manila folders filled with pictures too tempting to be real.  _Innocent_. John distinctly remembered that word. It had sunk like a brand into his skin, echoed ceaselessly in the whetted tangle of his troubled mind. The thought of an innocent suffering pricked at his weary bruise strewn skin, burrowed achingly under snapped sinew and cracked ribs to coil somewhere in his battered chest, near that dusty hollow that had even him, _Baba Yega_ , flinching away.

 

But you sure as shit didn’t look  _innocent_  to him.

 

 

Not now anyway, with your supple dewy skin gleaming beneath the dim light of this throbbingly private back room like some rare aureate metal that had yet to be given a name, those red siren’s lips of yours -  _really_  John wouldn’t be shocked to find that multitudes of men had broken on the bow of your cupid’s bow- parting in charming surprise. The silken halo of your hair spilled from the no doubt purposefully ruffled coif of your half back hairstyle to lounge temptingly across your slim, graceful shoulders, dipping down your collar bones to gently kiss the hollows of your throat.

 

 

And below… _No_ , John couldn’t think about  _that_ , the whole billowing, curving wealth of your body, bared to him like an offering, like a gift for the devil himself. He had a mission,  _dammit_ , and he would see it through.

 

 

John had always viewed the world in simple terms; actions and consequences, causes and effects, goals and barriers. Callous - maybe, practical - absolutely, but it had gotten him where he was today.

 

 

_Reeling in the presence of a young woman half his age, a stunning slip of a girl doomed to die beneath his grim hand, fate sealed by the contract tucked in his breast pocket? Or, more aptly, half drunk on the scent of your hair, brimming with subtle flowers and silk and some tempting, irresistible womanly spice he’d long forgotten the delightful tang of?_

 

_Shit!_  Where was John’s hard won, finely hewn control now, when he so desperately needed it? Still rusty, he supposed, even after all the fresh blood caked beneath his fingernails, stark, damning crimson that no amount of soap or scrubbing could wash out.

 

 

“Death sentence,” you sputtered, the lush curves of your ruby lips capturing his attention as though he was a dog you’d just dangled a bone in front of. John was indescribably grateful for the distraction, “I-I don’t understand. I mean I knew that Ritchie was into some bad stuff, but putting a hit out on me? He’d really go there?”

 

 

 _Bad stuff?_  Clearly you didn’t know this “Ritchie” nearly as well as you thought.

 

 

“Where does he get the balls?” you barreled on, beginning to pace as you spoke, and to his searing disquiet John had to work hard not to let his gaze dip to the bounding flesh of your breasts that bounced eagerly with each of your pounding steps, barely contained in the glimmering slip of your sparkling top, which caught the scant light temptingly as you strode back and forth before him, a shining lure attracting his beauty starved senses. Maybe John had underestimated how much his frayed nerves could handle, how stale and sterile his bitter existence had been. “He gets his humungous ego trampled on just a little bit by my platforms and that gives him just cause to put a fucking  _hit_  out on me, like this is Sin City or some shit?”

 

 

John watched as nearly palpable anger slid about your finely wrought features, darkening the bright glimmer of your eyes, pinking your high cheekbones, clenching the slim curve of your jaw. That fire in your gaze  _did_  something to John, had an answering sort of flame sparking in his own chest, shedding light on the many dark corners lurking there, each one holding even darker secrets that he’d long attempted to forget.

 

 

Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning John realized why he hadn’t just taken you out like any other contract, why he’d wanted to see you in person, to know the fall of your hair and the curves of your lashes before he pulled the trigger, and it wasn’t just because Winston had asked. John hadn’t underestimated himself here with you, no. Something deep inside of him, near the part of his heart that still feared damnation, had sensed that this was a just cause, a wrong that needed to be righted.

 

 

And that same part had thought that maybe,  _just maybe_ , it would be enough to lessen the burgeoning heft of his many horrid, uncountable sins just a measure. Just enough so that it would fit right on his shoulders again.

 

 

“There may be a way around this,” John found himself saying before he could stop himself, words falling like a plea, like a fervent prayer, from his fallow lips, “There may be a way that you don’t have to die.”

 

 

Just for a moment, as his words seemed to sink bravely into your mind and something suspiciously like hope seemed to spark in the bright glimmer of your eyes, John felt a feeling rising in his breast, a sensation that he hadn’t known in a long time, something he didn’t dare give a name to, or else make it real. Something that felt like fire as it seared in his veins, that scorched his throat like hot, billowing smoke and parted his lips for it’s joyful bite.

 

 

And without a second thought, he opened his arms for its balmy kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Lovely Readers!
> 
> I apologize for the momentous delay in getting this second chapter out, life got a bit crazy but I'm settled in a rhythm now, and I have the plot lines for the next few chapters plotted out, so here we are! Right now I'm planning 5 chapters, but I'm always open to do more, so PLEASE if you have any ideas or things you'd like to see, let me know! 
> 
> I sincerely hope that you enjoyed this chapter, let me know any comments, thoughts or concerns you have, I love your feedback! Thank you for your amazing support!
> 
> Mood Board! 
> 
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/167980031554/blood-and-gold-and-bedroom


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Fresh Blood, Cracked Concrete, and a Smoking Gun

 

 

“Why do you look so nervous, baby?”

 

 

The prodding, slurred question was posed carelessly in the general direction of your tits by the glassy eyed, overly handsy customer slouching licentiously between your thighs, the plush velvet chair you expertly straddled currently occupied by some Fortune 500 CEO who possessed a dangerous combination of far too much money and not nearly enough common sense. The latter of which  _should_  be wisely advising him that it was a  _very_  bad idea to try, once again, to slip one of his grimy, pawing hands about the lush curves of your ass, but unfortunately any traces of prudence seemed to have fled from the man, most likely due to the plunging cut of your strappy mini dress and the nearly empty drink sweating in his hand that wasn’t busy trying to perch on the full swell of your waist.

 

 

You caught his bravely invading palm just before it could find purchase on your silk clad hips, noting with a healthy measure of disdain that you thought you spied a gaudy class ring glinting on the meaty finger of the sleaze ball.   _What a douche._

 

 

“No touching,” you crooned coyly, taking care to imbue the iron clad command with a wide playful smile, though the tight bands of your fingers that were curled around his Rolex bearing wrist were anything but jocund.

 

 

“You keep shaking your ass like that, baby, and you can have whatever you want,” Mr. Douchey and Drunk sneered before raising the Dark & Stormy sloshing precariously in his glass and taking a hearty gulp, his eyes never straying from the bounding curves of your body. You let the flirtatious smile slip from your lips as you swayed your hips expertly in time to the low, thrumming music filling the club, momentarily content that this asshole wouldn’t hazard an upwards glance to your face for quite some time.

 

 

You took advantage of your seedy customers distraction to sweep your anxious gaze around the buzzing, neon-clad club once more, searching with poorly concealed, rapidly growing worry for any familiar hints of a dark, immaculately pressed suit or a careless fall of jet black hair framing handsome, stubble tinged features.

 

 

You had been visited at the club, in the private back room marked _Four_ , by The Stranger on a bi-weekly basis for nearly a fortnight now, and this was the first and only time that Tall, Dark and Handsome had ever been late. As reluctant as you were to admit it, you had become quite accustomed to the hour-long reprieve from groping hands and alcohol saturated breath that your meetings with  _him_  had afforded you. In fact, by the second visit you’d found yourself looking forward to the alone time, anxious for the long minutes spent plotting and scheming, and learning as well. And given all that you’d gleaned about the nature of his… _work_  in the ensuing visits of the past few weeks, you had more than enough reason to worry about his tardiness now.

 

 

It turned out that your ex Ritchie was more than just a shitty boyfriend and a somewhat intimidating mobster; he was also a murderer who had a  _thing_  about being broken up with, namely that he couldn’t stand for it. The fact that you’d been the one to end things with him had been enough in Ritchie’s book to warrant your death, and he’d been insane and angry enough to task an assassin to do it.

 

 

The very same assassin that had glanced up at you not even two weeks ago with darkly shining eyes and had promised in that grave, husky voice of his to find a way to save you from this kill order. The very same assassin that you suspected had been dispatched to carry out the deed himself.

 

  
And his lateness now, at the time of your scheduled meeting, had you wondering with no small amount of fear if the price on your head had been raised just enough to finally convince the soft-spoken, steely-eyed man who had sworn to provide you with safety and solace, no strings attached, to pull the trigger.

 

 

At that moment, Mr. Douchey and Drunk once again forwent any traces of advisable common sense and seized the opportunity that your distraction provided to lay a clammy, groping hand on the undulating swell of your backside, his ring bedecked fingers squeezing hungrily, possessively. A low, angry scoff worked it’s way out of your throat then, all traces of proprietary charm and flirtation fled from your form as you slipped deftly from the chair he occupied, dug your manicured nails into his wrist and pried his grip loose from your ass, motioning caustically for the imposing bouncer stationed a handful of feet away to come and kick the loser out.

 

 

“I warned you,  _baby,_ ” you cooed, your tone imbued with a syrupy sweetness that didn’t quite reach your eyes, “No touching.”

 

 

You couldn’t muster up even a modicum of sympathy for the guy as the bouncer took him by the back of his obviously moneyed suit jacket and dragged him like a rag doll towards the exit of the club.

 

 

You seized the much-needed moment of resulting alone time to huff in a few shaky breaths, panic and disquiet clawing icily up your spine to settle like a vice about your throat as you backed into the nearby curtained corner, running your hands through your loose hair, swiping your palms against the outside of your bare thighs. Where the hell was your Stranger? Why wasn’t he here yet? What did it mean that he was absent – did it spell out your impending doom?

 

 

You nearly yelped when you felt long slender fingers close unexpectedly around your elbow, a looming presence pressing solidly against your back, though the low, familiar, raspy voice that husked in your ear not even a heartbeat later had you sighing instead of screaming.

 

 

“It’s me.”

 

 

“ _John_ ,” you breathed, your tense shoulders sagging heavily as molten relief scorched through your veins, though the broad, firm wall of muscle packed chest pressed against your back didn’t budge a single inch with anything remotely close to relaxation.

 

 

You were still a bit too distracted by his sudden, blessed arrival to consider that though, busy as you were musing that you quite liked how his name felt tugging at your tongue, slipping from your lips. You hadn’t stopped considering it, appreciating it, since he’d imparted it to you at your last meeting.

 

 

_“So that’s the plan?” you’d asked, flicking a freshly manicured nail meticulously across the pristine lace twining the bottom edge of your intricate bustier, your nervous fingers flicking valiantly at dust that didn’t exist as an excuse to keep busy._

_“That’s the plan,” The Stranger echoed, canting his dark head wearily, like you’d just added a few more pounds to the already staggering weight crushing his broad, suit clad shoulders. You supposed that in a way, you had. Though in all fairness, you hadn’t been the one to suggest the lodging arrangements at the end of this particular get-away scheme. That idea had been all Tall, Dark, and Handsome over there, rising to leave as you nodded in silent agreement._

_Still, it was something like residual guilt, swirling thick and gnarled in your chest, that spurred you to blurt out the oddly intimate question, your words bouncing hopeful and urgent against the rigid curves of his expansive back._

_“What’s your name?”_

_A poignant silence followed your hastily intoned, possibly reckless question, though before you could even begin to regret it The Stranger was turning to you, canting a black, always black, suit draped shoulder towards you and glancing your way over the mountainous slope of silk and cotton._

_“It’s just that you know so much about me, and if the plan goes the way you say it will we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other. You can’t just be ‘The Stranger’ anymore, now can you?” You forced yourself to stop talking, biting your tongue so hard that you swore you tasted blood, wickedly cursing the nerves that skittered hotly down your spine at the subtle rise and fall of his even breaths, the darting of those dark, damning eyes as they fixed everywhere but on you._

_Something that could almost be interpreted as a smile had quirked those full, tempting lips of his as his intense gaze, the one a girl could drown in, finally fell on you and he replied, just one simple syllable that had completely changed the whirling orbit of your world._

_“John.”_

“There’s been a development,” John clipped, one of his callous palms curling protectively around your bare forearm, and before you could think logically about what you were doing you were leaning into his touch, canting your shoulders more firmly against the wide slip of his chest, “We’re gonna need to enact the plan.  _Now_.”

 

 

“Now?” you echoed, trying hard to keep the surprise and panic that were warring for purchase in your chest from showing anywhere on your features, where the multiple patrons milling just a handful of feet in front of you could see, “I thought we had at least another week. What’s this development?”

 

 

“Ritchie,” John husked, and though he was skilled at masking his emotions, you were learning to read him and as such you clearly heard the traces of disdain and annoyance that just barely colored his brisk tone, “He’s on his way here, now. It seems he’s decided that the contracted hit he payed for is taking too long,” You swallowed thickly, anticipating where this macabre revelation was heading and not liking it one bit, “He’s decided to finish the job himself.”  
  


 

“Kill me, you mean,” you grated, your voice breaking as a searing rush of molten anger and jagged dread knotted poignantly in your stomach, “He’s coming to kill me.” You felt John rasp in a ragged, almost shuddering breath before he nodded against your hair, those calloused fingers he had secured around your forearm tightening in a seemingly uncontrollable reaction, as if he could save you from the crazed mobster with the sheer force of his will.

 

 

“Okay, okay, we know what to do, we did plan for this,” you babbled in a desperate effort to regain some of the control you felt slipping from you so quickly, “We didn’t anticipate it happening so soon, but we know what to do.” John nodded once more at your back, lowering his head so that he could rasp softly at your ear, the muted pinpricks of his stubble tinged beard making markedly out of place shivers of the distinctly non-frightened kind slip like fire down your spine, settle hot and molten somewhere between your hips.

 

 

“You still have the gun I gave you?”

 

 

You nodded sharply after taking the scant space of a clumsy heartbeat to regain control of yourself, making a mental note to analyze that particular reaction when you didn’t have an irate, weapon toting ex-boyfriend hot on your trail, intent on killing you for spurning him.

 

 

“Show me, just like we practiced.”

 

 

With shaking fingers you reached behind you, between the slim slip of your back and the hard, immovable wall of John’s chest, to grasp the small, practical pistol you had stashed in the garter holster secured high on the inside of your thigh. Keeping the gun securely out of sight behind your back, you cocked the hammer and removed the safety in a matter of seconds, then demonstrated your tactical firing grip for John’s inspection, only moving to undo the hammer, return the safety in place and re-secure the weapon in it's holster once he’d made a low noise in the back of his throat that you took to be approval and gave a curt nod of his head.

 

 

“Meet me at the car out back, do you remember the license plate I described to you?” You gave another nod of confirmation, and John continued, “Use the route we discussed last week, that’ll be the quickest exit, and if you see anyone with a gun that you don’t recognize, shoot them. We can't afford to ask questions first.” John paused then, slipping his fingers lightly, almost experimentally, down your arm, over the delicate bones of your wrist, splaying his large palm across the back of your hand, his long, slender fingers ghosting over yours, the barest hint of tenderness thrumming low and fervent in his touch, “Be careful.”

 

 

“I will be,” you replied, valiantly trying to push away the hot, aching plume of warmth that bloomed in your chest in response to his small show of concern, though thankfully you didn’t have to try much harder to win the losing battle you were fighting against that telling sensation, because after a brimming heartbeat John was gone, moving like a shadow at midnight, like billowing smoke, through the vivaciously thrumming crowds swarming the club.  _If only Ritchie and his guys knew what was coming for them..._

 

 

You could afford to take only a few seconds to steel yourself before you swept your eyes over the many various exits shooting off from the main gallery you stood in, hastily identifying the aforementioned escape route that John had meticulously mapped out for you. Pushing back your shoulders and imbuing your steps with a surety that you sure as shit didn’t feel reflected in your fluttering stomach, you strode towards that exit, keeping it firmly in sight as you scanned the club with your peripheries for anyone that seemed to be armed and hostile.

 

 

You’d made it through the exit and had ran halfway down the hall towards the staff locker rooms, where you'd been headed to grab your emergency stash of clothes and supplies hidden in your locker for just this occasion, when you caught sight of the first assailant. He was a huge man, tall and broad, sporting a shaved head and a gruesome bleeding heart tattooed with sickening realism on his neck.  _Charming._

 

 

He stood directly in your path, licking his lips salaciously as he raked his gaze down your exposed form and un-holstered his weapon, a dangerous looking glock clipped to the oily leather of his belt.

 

  
“Ritchie didn’t mention what a hot fuckin' piece you are,” the guy crooned, moving towards you with measured, precise steps that had terror seizing your limbs, locking you firmly into place,  “Maybe I’ll have a taste for myself before I cap you.”

 

 

You didn’t have time to think up an appropriately caustic reply, much less grab the weapon strapped to your thigh before a previously unseen door concealed behind the hulking gangster burst open, allowing a total of five bodies, all large, gun toting henchmen, to slide into various splayed positions onto the concrete floor, each bearing an equally lethal wound. And after them, fresh blood sprayed across one steel hewn cheekbone, dark gaze intense, piercing as it fell on Neck Tattoo in the hallway before him, his jaw set with positively lethal intention, was John.

  


 

* * *

 

  


  _Control the anger..._

  


John supposed that he could almost feel sorry for the mobster sporting a macabre neck tattoo, standing dumbstruck in the hallway as he burst violently into the concrete walled, fluorescently lit corridor; judging by the gaping, incredulous, horrified recognition tearing across the guy's face, he'd also been misinformed about the assassin dispatched by Ritchie’s contract to kill the same "hot fuckin' piece" that he'd wanted a taste of just now.

  


_Temper the rage...._

 

 

John didn't stop to consider why those sleazy words he’d heard from outside the door, threats uttered by an even sleazier male, had enraged him so much, he didn’t have the luxury, not with how much red was filling his vision, how much pure undiluted copper he tasted, ripe and rusted, on his tongue. When the guy cursed darkly and raised his gun with shaking hands, muttering something about not being scared of the fucking Boogey Man, John reacted on instinct, from the fumes of the undiluted intuition snaking like coils of dreaded fate through his limbs, snapping one hand out to curl around the mobster’s throat, landing the crook of his thumb solidly on the guy’s windpipe, while he wielded his gun toting hand with lethal momentum to shoot a silenced 40 caliber bullet or two into the guy’s torso. The mobster groaned as he thudded onto his knees, his dark eyes brimming with hate, with sharp malice, and without even a second’s worth of hesitation, John shot him between the eyes.

 

 

As he thudded to the ground John caught sight of you standing a few paces away, your luminous eyes wide, your ruby red lips parted with some molten emotion that John couldn’t identify, and even though he’d been in this situation countless times before, covered in the blood of his enemies, a smoking gun clutched in his hand, he had the sudden urge to scratch the back of his neck and offer you an explanation.

 

 

But evidently, blessedly, you didn’t need one, because after a brimming heartbeat in which John’s eyes locked with yours, your gaze positively searing, making him wonder for the millionth time why his chest always felt so damned _full_ when you turned your bright scorching eyes on him, you were moving down the hallway, your delicate, strappy heels clicking gently on the concrete floor as you walked. You sidestepped the various bodies scattered about the hallway with a lilting, feminine grace that had John’s heart twisting hard in his chest, something like charmed appreciation racing hotly through his veins, spurring him to reach out one hand to help you vault gently over a particularly large body strewn in your path. You slipped your hand into his with ease, and with belayed dismay John realized that, in true aesthetic form with his blisteringly damned soul, his hands were deeply stained with stark crimson blood. Once again, somehow, you didn’t seem to mind, keeping your fingers curled around his palm, your hand warm and small in his.

 

 

“ _The Boogey Man_?” you questioned coquettishly, arching one finely wrought brow in his direction, the barest hint of a smile playing about your full lips as you spoke. John couldn’t quite stop the shame tinged hesitation that bloomed thick and hot in his chest at your inquiry, at the ocean’s of blood that the simple moniker denoted, but the playfulness running rampant about your features, the warmth in your eyes as you gazed up at him, had an uncontrollable smile tugging at his mouth in response, had his fingers tightening around yours.

 

 

“I’ll explain later,” John supplied, casting you a sideways glance as he began to lead you down the hallway, reckoning with mild satisfaction that if you suspected that he was deflecting you didn’t show it. You could be incredibly difficult to read, and for John, who was used to people spilling their secrets to him at the merest prompting of his silent blistering gaze or the callous barrel of his gun, that was both incredibly refreshing and somewhat frustrating.

 

 

Though he was markedly grateful for it now, when time was of the essence and you had at least a handful of gunmen hot on your heels. As John shouldered his way into the staff locker rooms you took the lead, winding your way through trunks of glittering lingerie and marquee lit mirrors, leaving him to prop open the door and keep watch for any other mobsters heading your way in the hall outside. You made quick work of the lock on your designated cabinet, wasting no time in tugging out a nondescript blue canvas bag and threading it over your shoulder once you tugged on a large trench coat to cover the scant mini-dress draped about your form.

 

 

“Ready?” you asked once you’d reached him once more, your tone cool, collected, as if you were inquiring about the weather instead of the status of your escape route. John quirked his head, incredulous, before he nodded, propping the door open wider so that you could slip out into the hallway. With a strange mixture of pride and worry swirling in his veins, he noted that you had the gun he’d given you poised in your grip, safety off, hammer cocked, just like he’d taught you. Another ghost of a smile quirked John’s lips, another plume of warmth blooming somewhere deep in his chest.

 

 

No time to think about that though, no time for anything but the plan, and for once in his long life, John regretted that. He suspected that he might like dissecting his reactions to you, and examining yours to him. He’d noted the times he’d thought he’d made a blush fire across your cheekbones, that he’d had your eyes dropping in some unbearably comely, uncharacteristically demure fashion, and damn him, he was _curious_ about why.

 

 

With that curiosity, that interest spurring him, John led you through the crimson-lit exit, down the stairs spilling out into the street below where he had his get-away car parked and waiting.

 

 

Though it wasn’t his baby, his 1969 Ford Mach 1, it was still a beauty, a sleek black ’75 Mustang, and it had been quite illegally procured, so John had taken care to park it in a darkened corner of the bustling street.

 

 

Reluctant as he was to release your hand, suddenly starving for the tangible reminder that you were alive and well and right by his side, he let the job take precedence over his damned _feelings_ and threw open the passenger’s side door, helping you toss your bag in the back, closing the door briskly once you were seated safely inside. Crossing quickly to the driver’s seat, he slid in and shut the door behind him, letting the muted silence permeating the cab of the vehicle wash over him for just a moment, quieting the rage beating in his breast, the urgency trickling down his spine.

 

 

Checking the mirrors on each side of the vehicle, John frowned as he saw the side doors of the club fly open, a handful of henchmen pouring out, beginning to scan nearby streets and alleyways fervently for any traces of their bosses intended quarry. Not even a moment later Ritchie Ramirez himself strode out, all garish gangster jewelry, oversized guns and brazen swagger. John could admit that he felt a glimmer of particularly satisfying vindication at the fact that the mobster looked distinctly displeased by the trail of bodies the assassin had left in his wake.

 

 

“Seatbelt,” John quipped to you, his eyes never leaving the mirrors, watching the movements of the thugs carefully, suddenly wanting to be far away from the city and it’s many hit men. It was time to execute the final stage of the plan, to protect you while John took out every last man intent on collecting the hefty price on your head.

 

 

It was time to take you to his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Lovely Readers!
> 
> And there we have another chapter! I sincerely hope that you enjoyed, if you have any questions, comments or concerns please don't hesitate to leave them for me down below! I love hearing from you! 
> 
> What did you think of this chapter? Too much John? Not enough John? Was everyone in character?? I personally love envisioning John striding in after a wall of bodies floods into the hallway, calmly swinging his gaze to Neck Tattoo and quirking an eyebrow as if to say "you wanna be next?" This chapter was action packed and so much fun to write, I hope that you enjoyed reading it! 
> 
> As for Chapter 4, I would love your input. I'm thinking of making it around 10,000 words, the longest chapter by far in this fic. I would split it up into three or four scenes/vignettes that detail the reader and John's relationship budding and growing, culminating in some kind of physical contact/intimacy between them at the end. If you feel like this isn't enough, let me know what you'd rather have! If you wanna see anything specific during this slow burn time at John's house, please tell me!
> 
> I can't wait to hear from you!
> 
>  
> 
> Mood Board for this fic!
> 
> http://imagines-oneshots-blog.tumblr.com/post/168827515204/blood-and-gold-and-bedroom-eyes-chapter-1


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